I’m sorry I’m standing next to you, grabbed the donut as you did, spoke first.

Oops! I walked right into your path knowing you have places to be.

Sorry. Ugh, that time I ran right into you didn’t I?

But, sorry somehow that horizon, its ridge line has trees fuzzy like a dream here and there.

Sure, like memories tucked inside.

The word sorry sounds funny from me?

I’m sorry. I guess I could try harder to wipe it of my longing for another word,

but it’s lives way behind my teeth, tangles with the tarter.

You’re right, I should be brushing more. I’m sorry.

And again, I did have a thought that was a little gross.

Oh! Okay again again, I am in your way, I do move about the world in a body,

the same size as yours. Oh yeah, bigger. No need for the measuring tape.

Yes, you are beautiful, funny, interesting, important.

I’m sorry, but I’m still more interested in that mountain, its dreams.

Look, part reminder part wonder.

My goodness, yes you’re right too,

meaning isn’t just in a word, or a mountain, or a man, but its use.

Yes sorry, I should take them back.

I’ll just pick them up and carry them around,

lug them like a flower with its petals glued back on.

“Bergie Seltzer” Patent of the Monologist

Nowadays, I know words. I have the best words. I’ve been making them for years to fit us all, by myself of the winds and the currents of the Ross Ice Shelf and Antarctica itself. Oh Purity. Get a satellite up there and see the process for yourself.

We can/should/will hunt that B-15, 11,000 square kilometers (4,200 sq mi) and dissolve it, another word for the world’s mouths, a word for what ails you all.

And you won’t miss that shelf I’ll melt to make more words. You’ll be too busy chewing on the hearty, filling letters, patented and refreshing golden nuggets for your tonsils. And oh wait, who said it first? I did. That’s me in your mouth don’t forget, drowning out all those inferior and weak words.

And trying to bring those shelves back by buying freezers, won’t work. They’re too small. You’re too small. And trying to organize a coalition of freezers won’t either, nasty you forget who owns the patent office.

We all had too much ice to begin with. I’m replacing it, with better things. I’m replacing it with words like bigly, words like huge, words like tremendous and braggadocious. They taste sweet to me. Open up and swallow.

Monologue

What we put in front of our eyes can protect us, fill us with what we want, curate an insides quivering in the was we are comfortable with.

If I ask you to wear a robe and only let me touch your ass for the rest of my left, would that be okay?

I keep meaning to throw away the owl statue, the rabbit skull, the picture of Gertrude, but I like their vibrations too much, the longing and nostalgia too much.

If I hide my poems about you behind a painting of a frozen lake caving in for both to visit in shame, would that be okay?

I watch the same TV over and over, refer to the same books, point to the same self defining moments as if I am fully made, perfect, happy.

If I ask you to write me a message, scroll it in a bottle, and bury it under an unowned window, would that be okay?

In the Office of the Monologistfor Sanity

Did I say that / I never said that / Wrong Wrong / Wrong I / didn’t say that / Wrong Wrong

Julie Strand is a poet, teaching writer, and arts administrator living and working in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She received her MFA in creative writing (poetry) from Boise State University in 2013. Her chapbook, The Mae West Defense, was published by dancing girl press in 2009. Her poems have appeared in Caffeine Destiny, Weave Magazine, FOURSQUARE, Arsenic Lobster, The New Gnus, JUPITER 88, Wicked Alice, Cant Journal, Delirious Hem, The Boisean, and others.